


300 Words

by endofnight



Series: Gravity of Tempered Grace [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, it's a series of sads, still sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:20:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endofnight/pseuds/endofnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The talent he showed on canvas could only be eclipsed by the talent in his being. His every breath was one of agony, that drove his spirit, and of peace, which came too late. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	300 Words

**Author's Note:**

> I am almost done with my feels and then I'll leave you alone.
> 
> I'm sorry.

_Put pen to paper_ , Enjolras thought. That's all he needed to do. And he did. He rested his hand lightly on the crisp white sheet, taken from Grantaire's sketchbook— _he won't need it again oh God he'll never draw again_ —the nib of his pen poised and ready.

Nothing happened.

Enjolras frowned and barely fought the urge to shake his pen. Was it out of ink?

But no. No. His hand hadn't moved. The words, which normally fired through his brain, sparked through the muscles of his arm and down, down, to pour out of his fingertips, weren't there.

How do you describe someone as everything and as nothing as Grantaire in 300 words or less?

Combeferre had offered. Combeferre always offered. Though he would never say the words, Enjolras knew Combeferre was what was keeping him together these past few days.

Combeferre would never say the words, either. Enjolras took comfort in that.

Enjolras wrote Grantaire's full name in his fine handwriting. It looked strange to him. It looked better. Easier. He'd never really called Grantaire anything but Grantaire. _R_ , occasionally, in the heat of the moment, when his brain and his tongue and his lips couldn't form his full name.

This person on the paper in front of him, with the given name as long as the surname, with a name Grantaire himself never used, wasn't Grantaire. He was a stranger.

Again, Enjolras's hand paused. _He was Grantaire_.

He thought, perhaps, to close his eyes and try to visualize the words, as he sometimes did when writing an article, or a paper, or a speech. When he was stuck on a passage, he could close his eyes, and he'd hear Grantaire humming in the back bedroom he used as a studio, could hear the patter of Grantaire's bare feet as he made his way to the kitchen for another drink.

Now he just saw Grantaire's body. The body he'd seen when he'd woken up, the body that had been wrapped around him but still so wrong. Wrong, he knew it was wrong, as soon as he'd laid eyes on him that morning. Every time he laid eyes on him again. Every time he closed his eyes. He could picture all of the tattoos on the cold arm that had lain over him as if they were pinpricked and backlit with the light of a supernova. The images seared into his eyes, into his mind, so that he saw their shadow over everything now.

He hadn't been surprised, not really. Hopeful—always hopeful. Enjolras was nothing, if not an idealist. But he knew the heavy toll Grantaire's addictions had taken on him. They'd ridden on that merry-go-round for years. Rehab, relapses, fights and making up. Over and over.

Enjolras was tired.

Grantaire was at peace.

Enjolras had lain next to him, hand to Grantaire's stubbly cheek— _forever stubbly, he'd never get to grow that beard he threatened Enjolras with now_ —looking at his barely open and unseeing, watery eyes. The deep, crystalline blue had faded, as if the very color of his irises had drained into the core of his unfeeling body. His lips were pale and cool when Enjolras kissed them.

By the time Combeferre had come to see why Enjolras hadn't shown up to class, he was numb. He watched Combeferre show uncharacteristic distress upon discovering exactly why Enjolras and Grantaire were still in bed. He'd let Combeferre pull him back, let him drag him out of bed. Grantaire's arm and hand had followed him until it couldn't anymore

— _his hands, I'll never feel his hands again_ —

and he'd sat there, on his knees, naked, watching as Combeferre had tried futilely to bring Grantaire back to him.

Enjolras shook his head and looked at the paper, feeling a jolt of surprise at the words now flowing over the page.

His name, and—

_He was loved._

_The talent he showed on canvas could only be eclipsed by the talent in his being. His every breath was one of agony, that drove his spirit, and of peace, which came too late._

_His friends—_

And here, Enjolras had stopped.

And later—

"Don't forget how he always left his car windows open," Marius said, his eyes haunted, but a smile on his face. "Especially in winter. You should write that down, too, Enjolras."

"And how particular he was about his beanies," Bahorel supplied.

Courfeyrac's face was pinched, his dark eyes bottomless. His voice was hollow: "A good friend. The best friend." Eponine wrapped her arm around his middle and leaned her head on his shoulder.

"He was my best friend, too."

Jehan didn't look up from the book he was writing in, and Enjolras let him be. He would share what he was writing, when he was ready.

"A very good friend," Combeferre agreed. "Except when it came to grocery shopping."

"He hated grocery shopping," Bossuet agreed.

"He was selfish," Joly nearly spit. Everyone was quiet for a time. "But a good man. He was a good man," Joly finished, his voice meek. Feuilly nodded his agreement, but didn't look up from the bright red paper he was folding.

Enjolras looked back down at the paper in front of him. He half-expected to see little doodles along the edges, but of course— _I say of course now, when it comes to the end of Grantaire. God, what kind of man am I?—_ there were none.

He picked up the pen and notebook and wandered out to his desk to finish the obituary. He paid no notice when his friends filtered out except to murmur what he hoped were appropriate responses. He submitted it to the _Memorials and Obituaries_ email address at the paper that night and, the next morning, made the monumental effort to get dressed and go for coffee and a paper.

Sitting at a table on the outdoor patio in weather that was far too cold, he turned immediately to the proper page, only to feel his breath catch when Grantaire's smiling face looked up at him. He hadn't submitted a photo; he wasn't sure who had. Combeferre, most likely. It was a recent image, his face scruffy with the beginnings of that threatened beard, his eyes squinting in the sunshine and with laughter, his teeth white and bright in the sunlight. He felt himself smiling in response, smiling for the first time in days.

He let his eyes flick down, read Grantaire's name, his birth date and— _too soon—_ the date of his death. Below that, the obituary Enjolras had submitted:

_He is loved_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> For reference, the song that caused this was "Iridescent" by Gavin Mikhail.
> 
> Blame him.


End file.
